A Perfect Knight

Several gentlemen murmured agreement and there was much laughter and jesting as the party rode back through the forest to the palace.

Alayne found there was good-natured but fierce competition as to who should have the honour of helping her dismount from her palfrey. She laughed at their eager faces, then summoned a young page standing nearby, causing the knights to pull faces of dismay and complain that they had been overlooked for a mere stripling.

‘I am not to be so easily won, gentle sirs,’ she told them with a smile and gave her peregrine to the page, warning him to take good care of her before jumping down from her horse unaided. ‘If I am to be won, it will be no simple task.’

She was immediately asked to set her challenge, but merely smiled and shook her head before walking into the palace. The coolness of the thick stone walls met her immediately, seeming dark and making her shiver after the heat of the sun. For some reason she felt uneasy, though she did not know why she should, nor what reason she had for feeling that way. The light-hearted exchange between the courtiers was no more than happened any day, though she was not usually singled out. Other ladies were more inclined to respond to such teasing and enjoyed setting tasks of heroism or skill for their admirers to perform.

She was foolish to be anxious. Yet the prickling sensation at the nape of her neck was intense. Turning, Alayne saw that a man was standing a little way off. He was partially hidden by one of the huge stone pillars that supported the arched ceiling above the great hall. She could, however, see that he was tall, powerfully built, with broad shoulders: an impressive man dressed in the English fashion in cloth of black and silver, his dark, almost black hair straight and just long enough to brush the neckband of his tunic. His features were strong, harsh, his mouth set hard as if he disapproved of all he saw about him.

Alayne knew that she had never seen him at court before and, for one moment, as their eyes met, she felt something stir within her. He had such intent eyes, the irises a deep grey that seemed flecked with silver—or was that a trick of the sunlight that came slanting in at the high window?

Alayne felt her spine tingle as she looked deep into those mesmerising eyes and felt the pull of his personality. Who was the newcomer and why was the tingling at the nape of her neck even stronger now than it had been? Was she being warned of something? Why was he staring at her in that particular way? And yet there was something about his expression that made her think he hardly saw her, that he was lost in some lonely place in his thoughts. He seemed brooding, distant, as if nursing some secret sadness.

Hearing the others enter the hall, the noise of their chatter and laughter filling the echoing space, the strange feeling of being threatened left her all at once and she laughed at herself. She had nothing to fear. The Queen had promised she would not be forced to marry and there was no reason why she should. For as long as she had Queen Eleanor’s protection she was perfectly safe.

‘Ah, there you are, Lady Alayne,’ de Froissart cried as he saw her. ‘We thought we had driven you to flight with our teasing.’

‘No, indeed, sir,’ Alayne replied.’

‘Since you will set no challenge, we have decided to be judged by the court. The best amongst us shall compete for your favour at a tournament,’ he said, eyes alight with wicked mirth. ‘The winner earns the right to court you.’

‘I am not to be won by such a contest,’ Alayne said, but could not keep from laughing. The teasing look in the Baron de Froissart’s eyes made her heart beat wildly despite herself. He was a charming man and of all the courtiers she liked him the most, though she did not believe that he, or any man, had touched the inner citadel within her. Sometimes she believed that her heart was dead, killed by the brutality of the man she had been forced to wed when she was little more than a child. ‘I promise only a token to the winner, but my heart is not so easily captured.’

‘Then what will win you?’

‘I do not know,’ Alayne admitted. ‘My love, if it is ever given, will be for a gentle knight; a strong, true, loyal knight who lives by his ideals.’ Her eyes were for some reason drawn to where the stranger stood, but he was no longer there. She felt disappointed though she knew not why, recovering herself almost at once. ‘This is but foolish nonsense, sir! Who can say where love comes from? We find it where we least expect it and cannot love to please others. Do the poets not say that the greatest pleasure of all is to languish for a love that is not returned?’

‘Cruel! Cruel lady,’ de Froissart cried and smote his fist against his breast. ‘So be it, we shall labour for the prize of being the knight who languishes at your feet without hope for love of you.’

She turned from him at once, hiding her amusement. The Baron was indeed a charming companion and she took little notice of his teasing, for she had decided that he was not the one who had been sending her poems and flowers. She rather thought it might be one of the young pages, because she had seen him watching her with a yearning expression that had touched her heart. Life at court was sometimes difficult for the pages, who were at the beck and call of all, and she had seen more than one young boy in tears when he thought himself unnoticed.

‘You must fight for whatever pleases you,’ she replied and left him staring after her.

‘Cruel enchantress,’ de Froissart called after her. ‘You break my heart, lady.’ He waited for some response but, lost in her thoughts, she hardly heard him as she made her way towards the twisting stair that led to the turret room she shared.

Alayne’s habit of taking solitary walks about the gardens had made her aware of such things. She sometimes saw a snatched kiss or a clandestine meeting between a lady and her knight, but she kept such glimpses to herself; these things were secret and must be respected, and the tears of a page were every bit as sacrosanct to Alayne. She had once given a scarf to a boy in tears, doing her best to comfort him after his master had beaten him. She rather suspected it might be this boy who had been leaving tributes for her.

Walking up the curving flight of stone steps that led to her solar in the west tower, she was thoughtful. It might not be Baron de Froissart who had been leaving her tributes, but she had a feeling that he was taking an interest in her. She was not sure how she would react if he made a direct appeal to her as a potential lover. She did not think she would mind being kissed and treated as an object of reverence and desire—but what if he demanded more?

Alayne’s marriage had taught her what brutes men could be at certain times, especially if their desires were frustrated. Some of the ladies talked of the joys of fine love, but could it ever be as sweet as the troubadours claimed in their songs? Alayne’s own experience had been very different, and she recalled her marriage, which had in truth been no marriage, with only horror and revulsion.

Alayne shared her chamber with Marguerite de Valois and was not surprised that the lady was already there, changing from her outer garments of surcote and heavy wool tunic into a softer, lighter robe of cloth of silver, which she covered by an over-gown of deep blue. She smiled as Alayne entered and began to disrobe, taking off her plain white wimple. The wimple covered her head entirely and was more modest when out riding than the fantastic headdresses that the ladies adopted for court wear.

‘Did you chance to see Sir Ralph de Banewulf in the hall?’ Marguerite asked as Alayne shook her head, letting the shining mass of dark hair tumble down her back. ‘My father told me he was expecting to see him here by today at the latest. He brings letters from the English King to her Majesty.’

‘I saw someone new,’ Alayne said. ‘A tall, dark man, rather stern looking—’ She broke off as she remembered his eyes and the way he had seemed to stare at her.

‘Yes, I dare say that was he. His mother was cousin to my father. Sir Ralph is widowed these five years. His wife died some weeks after giving birth to their son. She was very beautiful and they say he still grieves for her.’

‘That is sad,’ Alayne said, remembering the brooding, almost haunted expression she had seen in the stranger’s eyes. ‘Such faithful devotion to a wife’s memory is not often found.’

‘No, that is true. Most men marry again as soon as possible for the sake of getting more heirs. I think he must have loved her very much. It is romantic—like the songs the troubadours sing for us.’

‘Yes, it would seem so,’ Alayne agreed, remembering the expression in the newcomer’s eyes. Perhaps that explained his stern manner. He was hiding his grief. ‘I did not think men married for love. It was not so in my case. My husband’s lands joined my father’s on one side. They arranged the match between them for their mutual benefit. My father said they were both stronger for the alliance, more able to defend their own demesne from any attack. My son was to have inherited all their lands in time and my father was disappointed that I did not give him the grandson he craved.’

‘But you were married only a few weeks.’

‘My husband had an accident the day after our wedding. He—he was drunk and fell down the stairs.’ Alayne’s eyes held the sparkle of tears, but she blinked them away, refusing to weep. ‘He broke his back, but did not die at once. I nursed him for some weeks, but he did not recover.’

She turned away as the bitter memories crowded into her mind and would not be denied. Baron Humbolt had cursed her with his every breath, blaming her for his inability to be a true husband to her. His hatred had been hard for a young girl to bear, as had the cruel, crude language he used to her—the language of the stews. Almost as humiliating as the way he had tried to use her on the wedding night.

But she would not think of that! She had promised herself that she would never allow another man to humiliate her in that way.

‘I am so sorry,’ Marguerite said. ‘It is little wonder that you have no wish to marry again. My father says it is almost time to arrange my marriage…’ She broke off and sighed deeply. ‘I hope he chooses someone kind, someone I can like.’

‘He has not spoken of his choice for you?’

‘Not yet, though…I think he may have someone in his thoughts, but I cannot be sure.’

Alayne guessed what was in her mind. ‘You think he may approach his kinsman? Sir Ralph de Banewulf?’

Marguerite blushed. ‘Perhaps, but I must not presume. These things are a matter for discussion and contract. Sir Ralph may not wish for such a match.’

‘Is there no one you like? Someone you would choose to marry if you could?’

Marguerite’s blush deepened. She hesitated for a moment, conscious of Alayne’s eyes on her, then said, ‘There might be, but he has not yet won his knighthood. My father would never permit me to wed a lowly squire.’

‘Does he love you?’ Alayne was intrigued. She was not sure why, but she had the feeling that her friend was not telling her the whole truth. There was someone—but was it really a squire who had yet to win his spurs? ‘Do you love him?’

‘It would be foolish of me to love him,’ Marguerite said and for a moment sadness flickered in her lovely eyes. ‘I know I must marry as my father dictates.’

‘Yes, I suppose you must.’

Alayne knew that her friend had no choice but to obey her father. Having been married and left in possession of a small but adequate fortune in her own right, Alayne had been able to seek protection from her Majesty. It was not the same for Marguerite.

‘Perhaps you will be lucky,’ she said, more to comfort her friend than in belief. ‘Come, if you are ready, perhaps we should go down. The Queen may need us.’

Marguerite nodded, smiling as if determined to banish her fears. ‘I hope Sir Ralph has arrived,’ she told Alayne. ‘I am looking forward to meeting him.’

Alayne’s thoughts returned to the man she had noticed earlier. He had seemed so cold, almost angry. Why was that? Had his expression when he looked at her been disapproval as she had at first thought or merely the sadness habitual to a man who was still grieving for the wife he had lost?

Chapter Two

T he company was very merry that night, the courtiers still teasing Alayne, the knights devising tests of skill and courage that they seemed determined to carry out in her name. She could not refrain from laughing at their foolish banter, though she continued to be firm that she would give only a trinket to the winner of the tournament and that her heart was not to be so easily won.

‘You must forgive them their foolishness,’ the Queen told her as she bid her sit on a stool at her side and tell her how this talk of a tourney had begun. It was a rare privilege to sit in the Queen’s presence and not given to many. ‘They grow restless at court and need this contest to rid themselves of too much energy. It would behove most of them to take themselves off to a war somewhere.’

‘Why do men like to fight, your Grace?’ Alayne asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘My father quarrels with his neighbours and his men fight amongst each other.’